


Little Things

by miniaturefuries (rc13)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, shoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rc13/pseuds/miniaturefuries
Summary: first fic...meh...too short to summarize!





	

You’ve just spent the past three hours in the freezing cold on a windy roof top, sniper rifle trained on a victim’s apartment. The estranged husband comes back around 9pm, kicks the door in and is about to shoot his soon to be ex-wife, but luckily, you’re ready. You hit him in the wrist and then the leg. Before you even get the second shot off, Reese is flying up the steps and the NYPD is dispatched to his location. You wait until you get the ok from him before you pack up your gear.

“All good, Shaw. He’s cuffed,” Reese looks out the broken window up in your general direction.  
You give him a two-finger salute that you know he can’t see, but it’s your thing. “Roger that,” you sign off. You think about stopping at the subway station to clean and return your weapon, but you’re frozen and exhausted. All you want is a scotch, a hot shower and a warm bed. In. That. Order.

You arrive at your apartment and before you can even put your key in the lock, the door is swinging open revealing an overly concerned Root. Clearly the Machine has been in her ear. Down to the second, apparently. You roll your eyes. Stalker, you think. Your nose is running. Your cheeks are raw and frozen from the cold. Your body is chilled to the bone. You’re pretty sure you now have the beginnings of a chest cold or sinus infection. Or both.

And all those old wounds, ligament tears, fractures, scars…literally every broken and worn down part of you is aching, which you realize in retrospect, is more than half your body. The last thing you want to do at this point is have any type of interaction with anyone and you hope Root is as up to speed on your mood as she is your every physical location on the planet at every given moment of the day. She’s been slightly (understatement of the year) obsessive about your whereabouts since your return. She tries to play it off, but you know she’s been tracking your every footstep like it’s a matter of national security. Your own personal annoying GPS.

Last week, you started to make a wrong turn down 7th Avenue when you catch yourself mid-stride and suddenly Root is chirping in your ear that you’re going the wrong way. You growl and glower up at the street camera. “ _Thanks_.” And you furiously shut off your earpiece and turn off your phone whilst staring up at her. You shut her out for the rest of the day and stick to the shadow map just to prove a point that you need some space. You know that she’s doing it because she’s concerned, worried, loves you, _whatever_. Damnit. You know that she’s suffered almost as much as you. But, she needs to take it down a notch before you lose your cool.

“Hi, sweetie. How was your day?” She pulls you inside by your jacket lapels and plants a kiss on your chapped and frozen lips. She seems unfazed by your drippy nose.

“I’m quite sure you already know.” You look at her skeptically and protest as she takes the rifle case out of your hand, “I need to clean that.” You scowl and wipe you nose with your glove. She ignores your uncooperativeness. She peels off your peacoat, black beanie (hers) and gloves and pushes a tumbler of scotch into your hand. Just as you're taking a sip, she’s grabbing your forearm and leading you toward the bathroom. Since you've been back, Root had a little construction done and installed a whirlpool tub. She assured you it wasn’t for you (it was). You hate baths: inefficient. But your body is still healing and you hurt most days. You never say a word, but she knows.

Tonight, she has a warm bath full of Epsom salts prepared for you (not bubble bath or you’d have to punch her). Even some cheesy candles sitting on the window ledge (you’ll allow it). You scowl in annoyance, but secretly you love her so much for this. She takes your scotch and rests it on the side of the tub. Rubs your forearms that way she always does, like she’s trying to warm you up. “I thought this might make you feel better.” That’s all she says and then turns, quietly closing the door behind her. You carefully undress and slowly ease yourself into the tub letting your body adjust to the warm water. It’s painful. Your body is so cold. Once you’re fully immersed, the jets on full blast hitting you exactly where it hurts the most, sipping your scotch, you decide that you’re a lot less upset about the obsessive spying.

Just as the water starts to cool and you’re all wrinkly, you look around and realize there’s no towel. Root barges in suddenly as you step out, dripping everywhere. She gives you one of her seductive little smiles as she checks you out then folds you into a towel which must have just come from the dryer because it's so warm. Your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. She kisses you on the cheek and grabs your glass. “Lay down on the bed while I refill this.”

She finds you practically passed out on the bed. “Roll over.”

You groan. “Mm not really in the mood, Root.”

“Humor me, sweetie.”

You comply. Too tired to fight it. You take a sip of scotch and roll onto your belly, depositing your glass on the nightstand. She pulls the towel off exposing your back. You shudder as the cool air hits your damp, naked body. She straddles your hips, you feel her jeans rubbing against your ass. She leans down and whispers in your ear, “Just relax.” She licks the shell of your ear, a sensation of pleasure rolling through you. Then you feel warm massage oil pool on your back. She works those long, slender fingers all over your upper body. You’ve never been a fan of massages…well, people touching you in general unless it’s for sex… until…Root. You’ve grown to like her hands on your body. She’s been absent mindedly touching you and then purposely groping you from day one…it’s just, well, second nature now. She’s conditioned you to it and now you look forward to even the slightest graze of her fingertips. Her fingers move effortlessly up and down your sore muscles until she works every last knot out of you from head to toe. By the time she reaches your feet, you’re snoring.

You don’t wake up until 9 the next morning. You still feel sleepy, a little feverish and congested, but so rested. Because of the haphazard way you’re laying across the bed wrapped up in all the blankets, you realize you left no room for Root. You wish you could feel her warm body pressed up against yours. Almost as if on cue, she waltzes in. “Hey, sleepy head.” She’s holding a mug of hot coffee which she places near you on the nightstand as she sits down.

“Thanks for last night,” you mumble sleepily into your pillow.

She grins smugly at you. “Didn’t even have to go down on you. I must be good.”

“Shut. Up.,” you say as you wrap an arm around her waist and pull her down. “C’mere.” You open the covers encouraging her to crawl under with you. You’re still completely naked and all you want is to feel her skin pressed against yours. “Lose those clothes, ASAP.”

“Why, Sameen, are you trying to get me naked?”

“Yes,” you grin into her mouth as you kiss her.


End file.
